


The Apple in the Godswood

by kolo_bos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2020-03-08 14:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18896416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolo_bos/pseuds/kolo_bos
Summary: Everyone was hoping for a happy ending, even the Old Gods of the North.Eddard Stark died in Kings Landing, but, then he woke up... And was given a new purpose, and new knowledge.When you play the game of thrones you win, or you die. He'd already done that once, time to try a different way.





	1. Prologue

 

## Prologue – The End and the Beginning

"Stupid, stupid Ned," he thought as he knelt waiting, literally, for the axe, or sword, to fall. The only thing he could hear in the packed square were the screams of his eldest daughter and the flapping of a flock of birds as they flew over. That and the sound of self recriminations at being fooled so completely.

"Forgive me Cat," he muttered under his breath, "forgive me Lya, I have failed you both. Gods, save my family. I love you Ca..."

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first ever fic, first ever published writing... Close your eyes and press post, weirdo.


	2. Death's Infinite Forest

## Chapter 1 – Death's Infinite Forest

"And I thought you were the sensible one, brother..."

What seemed like seconds after his execution Eddard Stark woke up. At least that is what it seemed like to him. One moment he felt the searing cold pain flash through him before darkness consumed him, then the blink of an eye later he was indeed blinking in bright daylight.

Bright daylight indeed, he seemed to be laying on the ground staring up at a wintry sun as it broke through the branches above him. It took him only an instant to recognise that he, against all reason, appeared to be staring up from his back at the branches of Winterfell's godswoodGodswood on a early winter's day.

Another moment passed as his fuzzy mind realised that he had heard a voice, an impossible voice, as he came awake, for wont of a better term. He tried jerk upright but as soon as he moved his head started swimming and he rolled onto his side, screwing his eyes shut.

"Easy now, brother. Rest a moment," said the impossible voice once more. It has been years but he recognised that mocking tone, he could almost see the smirking mouth that delivered the admonishment.

"It cannot be, you are dead..." Ned mumbled as he struggled to reconcile what his sense told him with what his head, and heart, knew to be true.

"True enough, young Ned, true enough." That voice, half laughingly answered. "But, then so are you, are you not?"

"Bran...?" Ned opened his eyes, lifted himself onto his elbow and looked to where he thought his long dead brother stood.

"Aye, Ned, 'tis me." Sat on the trunk of a fallen tree sat his elder brother, just as he had last seen him before his mad journey South to confront the King and his death. Dressed in dark leather coat-of-plates with a steel gorget, his wolf trimmed cloak clasped at the shoulder with a direwolf pin, resting his hand and a half longsword on his lap just as he used to clean it with a oil dipped rag. His image frozen in Ned's mind on that day he had imagined him riding out from Winterfell with his company of lordling friends.

"What is this place, what magic has brought us back?" Ned asked as he, more cautiously, hauled himself up to a knee. What he had thought was Winterfell's godswood stretched impossibly far in each direction. Outside of the clearing in which he and his brother sat the trees stretched on as far as he could see before the trunks and branches merged into one dark mass.

"Best as I can fathom, the Gods have brought us to this place to talk," Brandon began before Ned interrupted him.

"Is Lyanna here, and father and mother?" he asked eagerly, more like the young man he had been when Brandon was alive than the grim faced Northman that Westeros at large knew him to be.

"In good time, brother," Brandon admonished. "To answer your question, yes Lyanna is here. Father is with Mother, but they are not here, not now."

"Lya..." Ned breathed.

"I wouldn't get too misty eyed over our sister though, Ned. She is not very pleased with you and is as like to tear a strip off you as she is to hug your sullen arse."

"Why, why would she be angry at me?"

"Again, in time. For now, you're stuck with me and I've got some things to explain to you. As you know, book learning and the like never came easy to me, so you'll have to be patient and hush your questions till I've got through what needs be said."

Ned grumbled under his breath about how easily they seemed to slip into old roles. "I'm not a pup any more, Bran," he muttered.

"Don't sulk, Quiet Wolf," his brother chuckled. "I remember. I remember, the last time I saw you you were a man grown... At Harrenhal." Brandon trailed off as memories overtook him.

"Aye," Ned was equally overcome, a deeper frown marking his already troubled face.

"But, maybe it's this place, or maybe it's just me but I'll always see you as that silent little lad perched on the post watching me and Rodrik spar..." Brandon again trailed off, obviously lost in his memories.

"Anyways, you've gotten me side tracked again. Y've probably guessed that your here for a reason."

"Aye, I'm short a head, that's the bloody reason," Ned interrupted before subsiding under his elder brother's glare.

"That you are, and, according to thems that run this place that shouldn't be the case. So that's why we're both here and talking to each other despite our deceased states. And that's another thing that's got our Lya bouncing off the walls."

Ned had almost forgotten the fire and force in his late brother in the over decade since he'd gone, but here it was, back in full flow and directed at him, and again the mention of their sister's agitated state.

"So, they've got us here so that we can set you straight and send you back, our Ned."

"Back where?" Ned asked, confused. He couldn't be implying that he was be returned to life, could he, after being executed.

"Not so much where as when, brother." If this was meant to ease Ned's confusion, then in many respects it had failed as he felt more confused than ever. "They're planning on sending you back to before this current mess began to try and, for want of better word, fix it."

"When?" Ned croaked, as his head spun from the implication. If he went back far enough he could save them all, Brandon, Lyanna, Father, everyone who died. Then a thought struck him. "Wouldn't it be better if... They, sent you, or Father, or..."

"Oh they have done, Ned. They've tried any number of people, great and smallfolk, in their search for the happy ever after. When I got here I asked the same of Father, said he'd been back, as 'ad Mother, Grandfather Edyle, Great-aunt Jocelyn... seems as how the Gods have decided us Starks are important somehow. And now, it's your turn to try and do what ever it is we're meant to be doing.”

Eddard frowned as he tried to make sense of Brandon's words. So he wasn't the first Stark to be brought back, he started when he realised just how quickly he seemed to have accepted the fact that he was in fact dead, sat talking to his dead brother, in an infinitely large version of the godswood he has spent so much time in over the last ten or more years, considering being brought back to life and sent back in time.

Brandon had been sat, uncharacteristically quiet, watching as Ned processed what he had been told. Watching as the emotions played out over his younger brother's face. Ned would make a terrible gambler, every thought he had seemed to be revealed in his eyes, or the wrinkle of his forehead, the corners of his mouth.

“How the hells you managed to fool Catelyn Tully, for all these years, I'll never know.” He mused aloud, a chuckling colouring his voice, breaking the silence.

“Wha...?” Ned returned, confusion equally evident.

“Your face, Ned. Every bloody thought you've had has been writ across your face, clear as day, to me at least.” Brandon explained. “I just have no idea how you've managed to keep your secret from your wife for so long. I mean, Cat's a bright lass. You'd have thought she'd have seen through the 'Bastard of Winterfell' story years ago.”

“I remember when we were together she would call me on every little lie I tried to get away with. There was this one time...” Brandon trailed off when he saw the shadow of some new emotion slide over his brother's face.

“What's that Ned, what are you thinking there?” Ned's face had gone pale and suddenly almost expressionless aside from a tightening about the eyes.

“If I were sent back far enough, I could save you, Bran. I could save you and you could have the life you were meant to have. The life of the Lord of Winterfell, the life with Cat...” The hitch in Ned's voice made it obvious to Brandon that this last had hurt Ned to say. He knew that his little brother would happily give up the title, the responsibility, the power he had had as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the The North. The thing that he would most miss, the thing that ever selfless Eddard Stark would have trouble giving up would be Catelyn Tully as his wife. But, Brandon knew, he knew without a shadow of a doubt, that if it came to it, no matter how much it hurt him, he would, and it made his heart swell with such pride and love for this man that he was able to call brother.

“Oh, Ned,” Brandon grabbed his brother by the shoulders. “By all the gods, Ned, you bloody would, wouldn't you? You noble bastard!”

Ned's face shifted from forlorn to confused to shocked as his brother pulled him into a sudden bear hug, before thrusting him back to arm's length.

“That's not going to happen, Ned. No one and nothing is going to stop you from you and your Cat getting married. The Gods aren't that cruel, and neither am I.” Brandon chucked at the relief he saw wash over Ned. “Besides, like I said, they've already tried saving my life, it didn't bring them the ending that they wanted. No, Ned, I'm afraid I have to die, I'm sorry.”

“But, maybe if... I don't know. What if...” Ned walked a few steps away before spinning, the most frantic and agitated Bran had ever recalled his calm brother ever looking. “Surely, there's some way...?”

“Look, Ned, like I said, I've already been through this a couple of times before. I've tried to stop Lya, I've tried to tried to reason with Aerys and Rhaegar, Gods, I've even tried once just ignoring it all and staying in Winterfell. Nothing worked with me as the Lord of Winterfell. I'm not the one that the world needs, apparently, and that is a giant prick to my ego, let me tell you.” Brandon laughed aloud at his own jest.

“How can you be so... so flippant about death!?” Ned asked, angrily. “Do you know what it felt like to hear you'd died, that been murdered and tortured?”

“Other way 'round, but yes, I reckon I do.” Brandon answered, all hint of levity gone.

“Probably about the same way it felt when I heard that you and Robert had been dragged in chains in front of that mad bastard and doused in wildfire. There wasn't even enough to fill a bloody cup when the flames went out. I know 'cause he sent me what there was in a little box.” he stormed, swiping at the tears in his eyes roughly with the heel of his hand.

“So, yes, I understand, but you, Ned, you could be the one, you could be the hope, the man we need to save Westeros from what's coming.”

“What is coming?” asked Ned, quickly picking up on this new tack of Brandon's. Before it was just that the Gods wanted a 'happy ending' to the story, now there was a threat. What was coming?

Brandon's face froze when he realised that he'd let something slip too soon, before he sighed, looked Ned in the eyes, those piercing grey eyes, and elaborated.

“War, Ned, war is coming, and not the Lannisters, or the Baratheons, or whatever the hells they're calling themselves.” Ned barely recalled ever seeing Brandon more serious, or, more like their father.

“Then who?” Ned pressed. “The Targaryens? Ironborn? Another Blackfyre?”

“The dead,” Brandon replied simply. “The dead will rise, brother, an army of unstoppable dead men, women, children and beasts, the Long Night approaches.”

Ned was about to scoff at his brother's proclamation, and he probably would have done is not for Brandon's absolute sincerity, and the fact that he was already talking to a dead man. He was a dead man.

“You remember Old Nan's tales of the White Walkers and the Others?” Brandon continued, settling himself back on the newly reappeared tree stump opposite his brother. When Ned nodded jerkily he went on.

“True, all, well nearly all, true. They're there in the snow and ice 'tother side of the wall. Old Brandon, he knew and built the gert big thing to stop 'em. Or least hold them back.”

“The Wall,” Ned licked his suddenly dry lips. “The Wall still stands.”

“Aye, its still there,” Brandon sighed. “But who watches it, Ned, eh? Who are the watchers on the wall? The dregs of men, Ned, and them too few. You've seen is y'self. Half the Wall's not manned, and that that is is understrength. They've forgot why they're there. They think that men laboured for years building a massive wall of ice, that stretches from coast to coast, just to keep out a few thousand tribesmen with bronze weapons. Does that seem right t'you, brother?”

Ned slowly shook his head, why had he never seen it before? Even if you didn't believe in the Others and Grumpkins and Snarks, does a solid ice wall, seven hundred feet high and a hundred legs wide make sense? What threat could Brandon the Builder have been so concerned about that he built that massive edifice?

“No, it doesn't make any sense,” Ned admitted. “But, why have we never thought about it before? Why does no one question it?”

“Out of sight, out of mind, Ned,” Brandon intoned sadly. “For thousands of years all eyes have been turned south, first with carving out our own petty kingdoms, then the Andals and the Dragons. Anyone who did look north just saw a wall, an insurmountable obstacle, keeping whatever's on the other side where it can do us no harm. Complacency, Ned, that's what it is, and time. If you forget to worry about something long enough its like if was never a problem in the first place.”

Ned could only nod, mutely, as he tried to absorb the implication. He was being given a second chance at life, true, but against a near impossible task. The Gods themselves were charging him with protecting the Seven Kingdoms, and entire continent of millions of souls, against the near unstoppable forces of the dead. If Nan's story was true, then anyone who'd ever died north of the Wall could be raised up into the service of death. An army that could grow as it killed its foes, raising them to swell their numbers.

“The Wildlings,” he said with a start, his eyes snapping to meet Brandon's. “They're in their path, aren't they? They need to be told, they need to get south, or they'll all die and be raised up, won't they?”

“Aye, Ned, that they will,” Brandon agreed, sadly, but with a trace of a smile playing on his lips. “And, that's why the Gods have put their faith in you, this time. As soon as you understood, your mind went straight to saving people.” Ned looked confused at the seeming tangent Brandon had taken.

“Your first though was for the people, not working out how to raise and army. Oh, I know that you're thinking about reducing the enemy's forces, but not through killing or destruction.” He stopped to let this sink in a little.

“Anyone would do the same though, surely?” Ned asked, genuinely confused.

“You think that Aerys or Tywin Lannister's first though be of the, so called, savages, Ned? Do you?”

“No...” he admitted. “No, I don't reckon it would be.”

“That's the difference you make, Ned. You've got the Stark sense of justice, but you've got Jon Arryn's honour, and, with the knowledge you'll gain, you'll have something more.”

“Starks have never prospered south of the Neck, save for Cregan, no one has ever survived more than a court visit to King's shitting Landing.”

Ned could only nod glumly, his own recent history bore truth to his brother's words.

“And he only survived a'cause he had the sense to get out once he's done his piece. No politics or posturing. No clamouring for power. It's not been our way. Our lives get so fucked up when we tangle with the Dragons, Ned.”

They both lapsed into silence as they both, inevitably, replayed the events set in motion at Harrenhal.

“So, what must I do? How does this work?” asked Ned.

“I can't tell you what you need to do, Ned. If I knew that it might have worked for me. Or, maybe not. I could be something, or someone you create that makes the difference.”

Ned started as Brandon spoke. He had never considered that it might be one of his children, the children he had almost offered to give up so that his brother might live. Proud and honourable Robb, Sansa his perfect lady, so beautiful and accomplished. His wild wolf, Arya, so much like her aunt, but so much herself too. Brave Bran, his dreamer, head full of knights and honour. Little Rickon, just a cub filled with energy and joy. He loved them dearly, and now he would get a chance to see them all again. To watch them grow and flourish. He would not let them down again. He would be smarter, better...

And Jon, his nephew, his blood, all that was left of his sister in the world. This time he'd protect him better. This time, Lya, he promised, I'll do better.

Brandon had sat back and waited as, once more, his brother's face bore mute witness to the working of his mind. The softening and longing could only mean one thing, his children, his love for them and for their mother. A sad smile graced his own lips as he thought about Catelyn Tully, his own betrothed once. He knew, a sad recognition, that he could have never loved her the way that his younger brother did. Ned could give her something that he himself wouldn't have been able to provide. Taking a deep breath the settle his whirling emotions he returned to the matter at hand.

“As to the how, Ned, that's pretty straightforward. Eat the apple, touch the tree, wake up back in the real world.”

“Apple?” Ned asked, confused as he was pulled out of his memories. “What apple?”

“It's symbolic, or something. You take a bite of the apple, you see some... things, and then the tree sends you back.” Brandon gestured towards the large weirwood tree with one hand whilst making a beckoning motion with the other.

Ned glanced at the tree, the face leaking it blood red tears before following his brother's gaze. He was shocked to see a childlike form emerging from the depths of the trees. He mistook it for a young girl for a moment before he realised that he was in the presence of one of the Children. The nut brown skin, the too large eyes and the twigs and leaves and vines as clothing and adornments. It was one of the Children of the Forest. She, they, it was almost creeping and gliding at the same time as they approached the Starks. A moment later they came to a halt at Brandon's side, their eyes never leaving Ned, they held up a large ripe apple in their oddly shaped hand.

“Thank you,” Brandon said as he took the offered fruit. The Children... how does one refer to a single member of a race known by a collective noun? The Child glanced up at Bran before giving Ned on final long look and disappearing back into the trees.

“Who was that?” Ned asked quietly, almost a whisper into the still silence of the never ending forest.

“She apparently has a very long name in the Old Tongue, too long for us men to understand, I only know the start of it.” Brandon admitted. “Something like Eirn Hverr Brens Thig At Hann Purfar Til Maor Meash Nei Hed Hverr Livur Aain... I just call her Apple and she doesn't seem to mind.”

Ned's Old Tongue was rather rusty, his mother had only taught him a little, but he picked out the 'headless' and 'lives again' from the name fragment.

“Right,” Brandon drew his attention once more. “Apple first, touch the tree, wake up, prosper. Got it?” He thrust the apple in Ned's direction.

“What does the apple do?” Ned asked, looking at it suspiciously. “Does it put me to sleep, is it poisoned?”

“Ned, take the damn apple. You're in the afterlife, talking to your dead brother, in an infinite forest, about to be sent back in time by the power of the Old Gods. I thought we'd got past this,” he muttered the last. “The apple is the least of your worries. Trust me, it'll be fine.”

“Right,” Ned took hold of the apple gingerly, eyeing it critically.

“Before you go,” Brandon said, laying his hand on Ned's shoulder. “Just know that I love you, little brother, and I am so proud of the man you became... will become. Bollocks.” He grabbed Ned in another bearhug. “I'll leave you know, but, one more person wants to see you before you go.

Brandon nodded towards the edge of the clearing behind Ned and, turning, he saw the person he perhaps most, and least, wanted to.

Stood just inside the ring of trees was their sister, Lyanna.

“Good luck...” Brandon said with a half smile, that morphed into a smirk as he clapped Ned on the shoulder. “...With the wars to come.”

Ned nodded dumbly, not recognising this as almost the same words that Arthur Dayne had spoken to him in the dusty courtyard outside the Tower of Joy, so many years ago.

All he could think and feel was tied up in the figure that stood just inside the edge of the clearing. The figure of his long gone little sister. The figure that was glaring at him. Striding towards him with red in her eye.

“Lya,” he breathed. “Lya,” he said again, just before his head jerked to the side and his cheek began to burn.

“Lya,” he gasped, clutching his hand to his throbbing face.

“Lya, Lya, Lya! Can you not say owt else, Eddard Stark?” Lyanna asked, barely holding her hands at her side, simmering with anger. Not the sort of reunion Ned was expecting. Although, if he were to think on it, what ever reunion would he have expected considering she had been gone from the world for fifteen odd years.

Before Ned could form his thoughts to respond, she once more started to berate him.

“You promised me, Ned. You promised me, on my death bed no less, that you'd protect him. You said you would keep him safe, but instead... instead, you let him be bullied into leaving home and going to the Wall.” Lyanna alternated between pacing and jabbing him with her finger to punctuate her words. “It was bad enough you let poor Ben throw his life away on that Gods forsaken block of ice, but you let my boy follow him to live among the rapists and the murderers. He... He should have been the king of the Seven Kingdoms and instead he died in the snow. You let him die, my... my beautiful...” Ned could see her winding down and pulled her to him, settling her head against his shoulder after a brief struggle. “My beautiful boy. The only good thing I ever did, Ned, and he dies. I've seen it over and over, he dies again and again and nothing I can do can stop it.” By now it was difficult to make out her words between the sobs as Ned slowly stroked her hair, giving her the only comfort he could as her anger ebbed away.

They stood in peace for what couldn't have been more than a quarter of an hour before she jerked back out of his arms.

“Fix it, Ned,” she declared. “You need to fix it, They think you're the only one who can.”

“I don't know if I can fix it,” Ned sighed. “Where do I even start?”

“Eat the apple, you'll know. You'll know all. But, you've got to make it right. The wheel is in motion, the only way to stop it is to break the bloody thing before it rolls over us all.” Lyanna vacillated between frantic and coldly serious as she fixed her brother with her red rimmed steel grey eyes.

“You can't save them all, Ned. Even the Gods' will cannot save every soul.”

“I understand,” Ned did understand the reality of the world. He'd seen it in battle and with the lords and the smallfolk of the North. A balance had to be found. The greater good, some cynic had called it once. For the greater good of the greater number, sacrifice must be made to save others.

“But you damned well better save my son, Ned,” her eyes flared once more as she fixed them on him. “And keep that cold fish bitch from hurting him or, I swear, I will find a way out his godswood and adjust her attitude myself. Am I clear?”

Ned was shocked by the vehemence of her returned anger, so many years without the 'Wolfs Blood' in his life, and could only nod his agreement.

“I said, am I clear?” She asked again, grabbing the collar of his jerkin and pulling him the short distance down to meet his eye level.

“Yes, Lya,” he spluttered. She narrowed her eyes as if trying to ascertain the truthfulness of his answer. She must have seen something to satisfy her as she abruptly released him and patted him on his, still tender, cheek.

“Good. Now eat your fucking apple and get on with it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as much as I have written, and it's taken me far too long to get to this point. And, yes, the chapter title is bit meh, but its what popped into my head.
> 
> If 'people' like this then I promise I'll try to dredge some more out of my addled brain, if not then I'll probably still try to carry on because I don't think Mr GRRM will get round to finishing his story off any time soon.


	3. The River and the Old Man

## Chapter 2 – The River and the Old Man

Ned found himself suddenly alone in the unnatural silence of the forever forest. Lyanna had seemed to melt away into the trees when he took his eyes off of her, leaving only the retreating burn in his cheek to bear witness to her ever having been there.

Or, was that true? Had it all been in his mind, he thought, straining his ears to hear more than just the creaking of the trees. Trying to make out the sound of retreating feet in the fallen leaves and long grass. But, nothing came. All he had were the memories and the apple he still clutched in his right hand.

“Eat the apple, touch the tree, wake up in the world again,” he murmured, looking down at the unblemished skin of the apple. “Well, what else am I going to do?”

He took a deep breath and then a bite of the apple, slowly chewing it and then swallowing.

He had expected to feel something, the power of the Old Gods infusing him, or some such, but, it was just an apple. No ground shaking, lightning striking or thunder rumbling.

Emboldened, and somewhat disappointed, by the lack of theatre he reached out and pressed his left hand against the white bark of the weirwood tree.

Instantly, he wished he had been less bold as his blood turned to fire in his veins and his head thought to split open. He had never experience such pain, his muscles spasmed and his joints twitched. The apple in his fist was crushed to a pulp as he fought to stay upright on legs that betrayed him.

The pain seemed to last for hours, but must have only been a matter of moments before he slumped to the floor amongst the roots of the tree and passed out, his mind being flooded with images and sounds, conversations he had never had or been party to, people he had never met or were long dead.

If he were more lucid he would have been able to reason that the Gods had gifted him with knowledge, just as he had been told they would. Knowledge of the past and of the future. What had been and what had yet to come to pass.

The roaring influx of new memories... visions... knowledge came to him like a raging river and he found himself tossed along by the current at their onslaught.

After what, again, seemed like an age at the mercy of the torrent he found that the rush and the pain began to recede and he was able to right himself. His consciousness began to tread water, like when he and Catelyn had found themselves tired of swimming in the Red Fork. Slowly gaining control. With that control has was able to slow down the images, bring them into focus, as the though through the lens of a Myrish eye.

He concentrated on the last thing he remembered, the none to pleasant recollection of his execution. He was suddenly assailed with viewpoints too numerous to count of the same thing. He saw through his own eyes, Ilyn Payne's eyes, Joffrey, Cersei, third townsman to the left, Sansa, oh Gods, poor Sansa, and Arya. She was there too, clinging to a statue... How he knew who these images came from he couldn't say, if he thought too long on it he found himself swamped under the weight of images of that person's life and had to hastily withdraw lest he be overcome by the new wave of visions.

Buoyed by his, small, success he tried to focus upon a new anchor point, the analogy amused him as he thought himself lost in a river. He focussed his mind onto Catelyn, he tried to find the memory of her visit to Kings Landing, reasoning that the most recent memory would be the easiest to catch hold of.

He tried to recall the smell of her hair, tucked underneath his chin as he held her trembling to him in Baelish's awful brothel.

He focussed on the feeling and was, ever so slowly, able to call up the memory, just like it was happening new, not more than a month's turn ago. He found that his viewpoint kept switching from his eyes to his wife's, over and over until it made him almost dizzy.

Could he be such a thing as floated in the river of memories?

Amongst the switching of eyes, which he managed to slow by once more focussing on the anchoring memory, he was confused to see a third view of the meeting. A partly obscured picture from outside either Catelyn or himself.

They had been watched, Baelish had set one of his whores to watching them from behind a screen. His anger flared causing the image to flicker, faster and faster switching from Ned to Catelyn to the unnamed woman.

His frustration fed his anger and the spinning dance of the memory seemed to throw out arms as other memories and other scenes forked like branches of a tree. He was Baelish at the end of his arm, pressed against a wall, his dagger under his chin. He saw Catelyn riding through the gates of Kings Landing, or through her eyes at least, her damaged hands barely able to hold the reins. He saw an unknown man hovering above him, eyes closed, face contorted into a rictus of pleasure as he rutted into the whore who was counting the coin in her head as she waited for it to be over. Out and out the memories went, more eyes joining them as they grew like ripples from rain drops, until the torrent once again threatened to overwhelm his sanity. The roaring of hundreds of voices in his mind.

“Stop!” He yelled in the maelstrom. “Stop, I can't take it! Please, Gods, make it stop!”

One voice cut through all of the others.

“Be calm, concentrate,” it repeated, over and over, as the voices and images raged through him. He felt sick to his stomach and was sure he would vomit, if he had a head. That caused the images to stutter for an instant, before he saw his own body slumped on the steps of the sept from a hundred different angles.

“One set of eyes,” the voice was stronger and clearer now. Cutting through the baying mob. “Look through one set of eyes.”

“Whose?” Ned asked into... well, he wasn't sure what. He knew he wasn't awake, or even alive really. He was still somewhere in the realm of the dead he thought.

“Does not matter. Pick anyone. But, only one, and hold on to them.” The voice again seemed to be stronger, more controlled. “Pick someone simple, a butcher, a baker, a tallow worker. Their thoughts at this moment should be simpler.” The moment seemed to be frozen in time, the voices silenced. Ned wasn't sure whether that was his doing or him, who ever him was. The moment seemed to be below him, as if he were looking out of a window or perched on top of a wall. He could be the clamouring on the edge of his consciousness, as if the many voices were held at bay by only the thinnest of walls. With no other recourse, he thought to follow the voices instructions.

He tentatively reached out with his mind, like holding his hand out infront of him in a dark room, feeling for contact.

He brushed against a presence and recoiled when he felt the anger and bloodlust filling the mind leaking into his own.

“Try again,” he could hear the voice wasn't as strong, now. No, still strong, but with an undercurrent of strain to it. He knew he needed to act before the control broke and with it the dam protecting them.

He reached out hesitantly once more, this time brushing against a calmer mind, he slowly eased forward into the mind and, after a moment he saw through this new person's eyes. He was stood against a wall, some way back from the sept, but still able enough to see. He felt pity and sadness and a little bit of disgust, though he wasn't certain of the target. He knew that this person had met his real body, he got the impression that they weren't here necessarily out of a sense of seeing justice being served, but more mild curiosity, they could take it or leave it and, infact, had something that they'd rather be doing.

It felt rather sad, and more than a little humbling, that a member of the crowd that had gathered to watch his eventual execution would much prefer to be in a tavern playing dice with his good brother, Lothar.

“What do you expect of a weaver in a city you've only lived in for a few moons?” asked the voice. “Though, he is as good as any for our purposes, Eddard Stark.”

“What are our purposes?” Ned snapped. “Who are you?”

“We simply need an anchor for your thoughts,” the voice continued, ignoring Ned's second question for the time being. “Without an anchor, you will be overwhelmed. Usually, your own mind would suffice, but you are swimming in time, Stark. You are adrift in a near infinite sea of minds. Past, present, future. Those who were, those who are, will be or could be. The Gods have seen fit to give you access far beyond my own.”

“You can see all of this too?” Ned asked, desperately.

“I see through the trees. The trees are everywhere and eternal. You, you see through the eyes of all men. A power almost beyond comprehension. A great gift indeed.”

The answer gave Ned very little in the way of comfort. Indeed, it disturbed him greatly. How was he meant to control such a massive... gift? What did the Gods expect him to be able to do? What was he meant to see?

“Too much...” he mumbled.

“It is a great burden, I agree. Far greater than mine own, and that I passed on to your son.”

“My son?” Ned asked, his control slipping and the image for Galbert Weaver's eyes began to falter.

“Peace, Stark,” the still unnamed voice attempted to sooth him. “I another life that may not now come to pass I worked with your son, Brandon the Broken, to guide him to take my place.”

“Bran...?” Ned managed to settle his mind sufficiently to hold the image once more after a brief flash of Bran's life at Winterfell.

“Aye, Stark. Brandon found me, north of the Wall, and I, for my sins, and they are many, trained him to replace me.” The voice seemed to express remorse, tempered with a righteousness somehow. Ned wasn't sure whether he garnered that from the voice, which was in his own head, wasn't it, or if he was in truth in the voice's head?

“Neither, and both, at the same time.” The voice answered his unasked question. Or, asked but not voiced.

“Who are you?” Ned tried again, frustrated and the cryptic nature of the conversation.

“I am a tool of the Gods, like you will be. I am the three-eyed crow.” The voice took pity on Ned's confusion finally, although knowing and understanding seemed to be different things. He felt something touch the edges of his mind and the frozen image of Kings Landing started to change. Like darkness creeping into the corners of a room, the light began to fade.

“Do not fight me, Stark. I mean only to show you,” the voice sounded strained as Ned tried to hold onto the light. The touch came once more, cold and tingly, as the light receded and in the dim he suddenly found himself a cave. For truth, it looked more like a peasant's root cellar gone back to the wild, or a burrow of some large animal. Thick roots formed the walls, the only light came from a torch, which he suddenly found in his own hand.

Casting the meagre light about him, he made out a dark shape amongst the roots. A particularly large tangle of bone white roots formed into a crude imitation of a throne. In the tangle he was shocked to see a desiccated body. The roots growing around, through and into the corpse.

When the corpse suddenly opened its eyes Ned dropped the torch to the floor, where it was promptly snuffed out, only for it to be replaced by another that again appeared in his hand.

“Wha... How?” Ned recoiled from the body in terror. Was this one of the dead that Brandon had spoken of?

“Not pleasant, I apologise.” The corpse's mouth moved but the voice, the voice he had been communing with, sounded just to his left. Swinging the torch he was presented with a vision of the same figure, now stood next to him.

Dressed in black, old, older than Nan, straw like silver white hair and snow white skin, but no longer pierced by roots. Whole, but otherworldly. Ned swept the torch back and found the figure was still seated.

“Two of you...?”

“Just one,” the figure answered. “One man in two places. Not much of a man now, I suppose. I've been sat in that chair for a very long time. But, you asked who I am, and I cannot hide from you, any more than we can hide from the Gods.”

“We are in my mind now, Ned Stark. You are seeing me through the trees as they show me me... Confusing, no?”

“You might say that, aye.” Ned was beginning to feel very lost. One moment he was dead, the next talking to the dead and now, now he was in someone else's min, supposedly, as he, the other he, watches himself through the trees.

“Circles in circles, yes?” the man who called himself the three-eyed crow chuckled to himself, the silent version in the throne, shaking, open mouthed, in a macabre parody of laughter.

“I sat in that chair so long ago and took up the mantle of the previous crow, a free-folk greenseer who had long forgotten his name.”

“And you, have you forgotten your name?” Ned wasn't sure why he asked, he wasn't very sure of anything anymore.

“No, I still know my name, though no one has called me by it in an age.” the crow admitted. “We're kin of a sorts, I suppose.”

“A Stark?” Ned asked, shocked.

“No,” both versions shook their heads. “You might say that I am your great grand good uncle. From a certain point of view.”

Ned looked at the man and tried to place him as a Tully or a Whent with no success. He was so pale that he was almost an albino, the only colour in his skin was the pink rim around his eyes and a dark patch on his cheek, half covered by his long hair.

“They call me crow, before I became the crow.” He stated cryptically. “But I was another bird before that, a raven.”

“Bloodraven...?” Ned half asked. The colouring, he thought the man just old and light starved. The hair and the pale skin. Brynden Rivers, one of the Great Bastards. “But you'd be over...”

“One hundred and twenty years old, yes.” The old man nodded in two places. “That is, if we are in your time.” Ned looked at him, the confusion obvious on his face.

“My time?”

“You are dead, now. Your spirit exists outside of the natural world, time has no meaning to you. You will not get older, here, you will not get tired or hungry.”

Confusion gave way to realisation. He was still within the realm of the dead after all.

“So, time means nothing. Is that how you still live?”

“No,” Bloodraven shook his heads slowly, gesturing at his seated form. “The trees, the magic of the weirwoods is what has kept me alive for so long. If I were to leave, if I were even able to, I would wither and die. My body is just a shell, now, alive only enough for my mind to survive.”

“And, this is what you consigned my son to?” Ned asked, angrily. The torch in his hand flaring brightly, fed by his emotions.

“Brandon Stark did not take his place on throne, not this one at least. He left when he felt he knew enough and went to join his family, south of the Wall.” The old crow tried to placate him, but even though his words seemed truthful, Ned felt that there was much that went unsaid. The old man was not telling him everything, or at least honey coating the truths to make them more palatable. He must still be wary with this man.

“He lived, he lives?” Ned asked. “His family? Catelyn and our children? Jon?”

“See for yourself, Stark. The Gods delivered me to you to help you harness your gift. Your bloods natural talent will only get you so far, I'm afraid.”

“You're meant to teach me, as you did with Bran?”

“To some extent, yes,” the old man offered. “Bran had already begun to slip his skin before he... left Winterfell. He had begun to harness his gift, but, your gift his greater, and your road is longer.”

Ned felt that the hesitation was important and that 'left Winterfell' was not the full truth. Yes, he must still be wary. If he could manage to control his gift he would find the truth for himself.

“I can guide you,” Bloodraven continued. “Show you what I know, but you will need to find your own way. Develop your control and that, that will only come with practice.”

“Then its a good thing that time has no meaning here, isn't it?” Ned's face was set determinedly. “Shall we begin?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, second real chapter. Hopefully it makes sense. I must confess it took on a life of its own as I started writing it. Its not exactly where I planned it heading when I sat down, pencil in hand. I write long hand first and type it up, less distractions and more flow, I guess, and this came to me.
> 
> But, yeah, this happened. Totally wasn't expecting Brynden Rivers to show up, but show up he did.
> 
> I want to thank you all for reading and I hope its been entertaining. Next chapter my plan is for the actual story to start, but, the best laid plans of mice and men, as they say, whoever they are specifically...


	4. Joy in the Dawn

## Chapter 3 – Joy in the Dawn

Ned blinked, slowly, awake as the light from the dawn began to filter through his eyelids, trying to establish his surroundings.

He was laid on his side, using a rolled up blanket as a pillow on and uncomfortable, if relatively even, floor. The smell of the waterproofed canvas as it warmed told him he was in the south, somewhere relatively warm, even at this early hour.

Rolling onto his back, he confirmed that his tent was very small, more like a canvas tunnel, big enough for only one man.

“So, after we left the wagons, then,” he mused, running his hand over his stubbly beard. “Not a week since a decent shave, so before the tower.”

He sighed before he began the process of extracting himself, made easier by his younger muscles, but, still not exactly elegant in execution.

Finally he stood, stretching the kinks out of his spine, before taking in his surroundings. Ridges or foothills on two sides, plains behind them and a pass between more substantial mountains to the fore.

He remembered this as their last camp before entering the Princes Pass. Looking around he recognised the well used campsite, little more than scrubby grass with a long established firepit at its centre. His small company had clustered their tents around in a circle and he now saw Theo Wull sat on a rock, regarding him. Ned nodded at his companion, long gone to him but now still a young man, with his life ahead of him. A life, Ned knew, to be tragically short the first time around.

“Morning, Stark,” the gruff Northman greeted him, never one for ceremony when brevity would suffice.

“Wull. Quiet night?” Ned croaked, clearing the thickness of sleep from his throat.

“Took over for Dustin, three hours past. You're the first thing bigger than a mouse I've seen all morning.”

The war was over but they had been taking no chances on their run south, Ned remembered. They'd avoided or skirted any holds or keeps they'd seen, leaving their wagons on the Kingsroad after they had dealt with Storms End and the Tyrells.

There was no point in tempting fate and a small group of obvious northerners might not receive such a friendly welcome riding through what had been largely loyalist Targaryen lands.

“Good, this should be done today or tomorrow and then we can get back home.”

“And never set foot south of the Neck if I have my way,” Theo grouched. “I set some water boiling, 'bout half an hour ago.”

“Obliged,” Ned replied. He knelt back at the entrance to his shelter and dug around in his luggage, extracting a bowl, spoon and bag of oats. He filled the bowl with some of the oats, returned them and then rooted around for his cup, which he used to douse the dried oats with boiling water from the pot. Stirring them up for a moment to start soaking them through and then leaving to one side as he sat and stared into the low fire.

He needed to know more about when and where he was, but asking directly would lead to more questions than answers. Over a decade had passed and, although he would never forget this time, his memory of the journey was not as sharp as the events at their destination.

Thinking back to his 'lessons' on control he slipped into a shallow trance and then let his mind swim in the currents of the surrounding memories.

The 'waters' felt more like slipping into a hip bath for him now, rather than the rushing torrents that had greeted him when he had first exercised his gifts.

He gently pushed out into his companions' minds to pick up the information he needed. Martyn, Theo and William were excellent sources of memory. From them Ned was able to confirm their location and refresh his own faded memories.

Ethan Glovers' mind was awash with guilt and the terrors of the Black Cells. That he was allowed to live whilst his friends were executed, murdered by a mad man wearing a crown. Ned hadn't known Ethan as well as Brandon had, had never known the torment that drove him to join Ned's party, even though he clearly hadn't recovered from his imprisonment.

Howland though, Howland's mind was a jarring sensation as Ned tried to slip in. The crannogman's thoughts and memories more closely resembled the flood that Ned had first encountered before Bloodraven had helped him learn to navigate. Combined with the odd sense of being watched, Ned didn't linger too long. Instead, he withdrew and started to bring himself back to the present. The present that was his past.

He woke to fond he was no longer alone with Theo. Sat on the other side of the fire, crosslegged and watching, was Howland Reed. His mossy green eyes regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and reverence that hadn't been there before.

“Howland,” Ned greeted him, swallowing to clear his suddenly dry throat. Fumbling for something to say as he picked up his oats and inspecting them with more attention than they were probably due.

“You are not the same man who went to sleep last night,” his companion said in that soft, knowing voice of his.

“We are all greatly changed,” Ned tried to dissemble.

“Aye, I see it in your eyes, Wolf,” Howland started, thoughtfully. “I felt a... presence in my mind as I woke. It touched upon my sight. It was you, but not you...”

Now comes a decision, mused Ned as he locked eyes with his friend. I know he is most trustworthy, my most loyal confidante and friend. But, that is in the future, we share this secret, this trust based on things that have yet to come to pass for him, and have long since happened for myself.

Howland watched with interest a flash of emotion cross his lord's face. A family trait, he mused, none of the Starks can hide what they're truly thinking, one only has to look with an open eye.

“You want to know whether you can trust me, don't you?” There was no malice in Howland's words, more a sense of understanding.

“That's part of it, aye,” admitted Ned, quietly so as to not draw undue attention from the rest of the camp as it began to wake. “But, partly, I wonder if I should, if I could burden you with what I know.” Honesty was, as ever, Ned's preferred approach.

“Hmmm,” hummed Lord Reed as he withdrew some dried... something, from his knapsack, and chewed on it slowly. “'Tis a tricky thing to know more than you should know and know that, too.”

Ned's brow wrinkled in confusion as he tried to decide whether that was wisdom or nonsense.

“And do you?” Ned asked. “Know more...” he trailed off rather than repeat the dubiously intelligent statement has friend had made. Or, he would be his friend, Ned thought. At this time they were more like close acquaintances. Howland had been a closer friend to Lyanna than Ned or Brandon, it was the Tower that solidified the relationship between the two men. But, Howland was as he ever was, a receptive and trustworthy ear. A true friend of the Starks.

“You know of the Green Dreams? Well, of course you do, I can see it in your face as soon as I mentioned it. I am, sometimes, gifted with echoes or glimpses. But, this, now, this is new to me, but I reckon not to you, so much.” Howland watched him critically for a moment before taking a sip of his cup, waiting for Ned to respond.

“Aye,” said Ned, slowly, deciding to grasp the nettle. “The Gods have seen fit to offer me guidance.” Not too much given away, but enough to show that he's not just humouring him. He hadn't counted on Howland being quite so shrewd.

“Guidance, is it?” he chuckled, tossing the dregs of his tea into the fire. “Seems to me they've given you a map, guide book and signposts. There be a powerful scent of magics to you now, Stark. Theo thinks the same, saw it when you sat down, he says. Glowing like a candle in the dark.”

Ned glanced across to where Theo had been sat earlier to see that the clansman was no longer there. This was beginning to get a little more complicated.

“You're right,” Ned sighed. “Please, just between us, for the moment...”

“My word,” Howland immediately agreed. The vow no less solemn for the alacrity with which was provided. “Theo will swear the same, be sure of it.”

Ned nodded his thanks before lapsing into a contemplative silence. This had seemed somewhat simpler to him before he woke up. He had had, if not a plan, then at least the first inkling of an idea on how to proceed.

He had not bargained on his relationship with the Gods being revealed.

Howland and his own abilities had put paid to that, but, if it were just him then all might still have been well. If Theo Wull could see the change, see the magic, then there was a good chance that others of the North would, too. First Men blood run strong still in the peoples north of the the Neck, in his own home he knew of half a dozen guards and servants who were only a generation removed from the mountain clans. Then there was Nan, old Nan would see whatever was to see about him in a heartbeat. He had often thought she had the green dreams herself, so seeing the ability in others would like as not come as easily to her as it had to Howland.

This was definitely an unforeseen complication he huffed as he chewed, mournfully, on his oats.

He was already struggling with how to go about getting out of Dorne without losing any of his friends, he just couldn't go through that again. The faces of the wives as he couldn't even offer them the bones of their loved ones.

Then what to do with Jon? How to save the Wildlings? Should he try to save Robert's life? Jon Arryn's? How to rid themselves of the threat of Baelish?

His shoulders slumped and he sighed deeply. Even with the advantages that he'd been given, this was a mammoth task. Mammoths, he wanted to save some of them too, and the giants that herded them.

This is hopeless, Ned needed to break the task down, just like his father had told him. One step at a time, a wall is made one brick at a time and from the bottom up.

He may have a massive task, but, he does have an advantage, he's lived through it once before, more than that, he can see the forks. He can, given time enough, sort through the paths and chose the most beneficial one. If he were playing at dice he could, in effect, cheat.

“Cheaters never prosper, young master Ned. There be no shortcuts in this life,” it was like he could hear Nan's raspy voice admonishing him.

Odd, his conscience had always sounded a little like Nan.

Maybe not cheating, then, more like employee intelligence to gain an advantage. Like scouting an opposing army before engaging them on the field.

The field, Gods, he'd have to live through the Greyjoy Rebellion again. The fighting was bad, but the ships were worse, he had never had the stomach for sailing.

Ned roused himself from his thoughts as he heard the level of activity rising around him. A glance confirmed that all of his companions were now up and about, breaking their fasts and starting to break down the camp.

“Don't forget,” Ned announced to the group in general. “Take as much water as you can safely carry. From here on the terrain gets dry and water gets scarce. We'll travel for a few hours and then wait out the midday sun in shelter, if we can find some.”

He had managed to sharpen his memories and had seen the journey ahead of them in more detail. It was, indeed, but a day and a half of solid travel before them and he meant to make camp in sight of the tower. He intended their fire to be a signal to the three men he knew awaited them of their impending arrival.

Much as they had done in the past life, but this time he meant to do it on purpose.

The party mounted up and headed into the Prince's Pass at a gentle trot, knowing that a steady pace that can easily be maintained is better that a neck or nothing dash. Especially when water was a precious commodity and the terrain this unforgiving.

Ned was relieved that their progress was relatively uneventful. He did notice Howland and Theo periodically glancing at him as they stayed in close conference during the morning ride.

They split the day when the sun was highest, taking shelter beneath a rocky outcropping that cast enough shadow to rest in out of the punishing sun.

A small group of Dornish riders took note of their progressing, bearing the blue, hooded hawk, banners of House Fowler.

Fortunately they decided that Ned's party posed no threat and allowed them to go about their business unmolested.

For what was one of the principle routes into Dorne, the roads were surprisingly deserted.

Ned attributed this to the fact that the Dornish army had been routed at the Trident and that patrolling was rather low down on the list of priorities. Trade was at an all time low with the ill feelings after Elia's murder, the already insular society had closed its shop doors to the rest of the kingdoms.

“But wouldn't that mean that they would be more vigilant?” he mused to himself as he dozed in the heat.

As he dozed he let his mind wander, without realising he found himself reaching out and found that there were other minds beyond his party. With a start he sat up and snapped back to reality.

There were Dornishmen in the rocks and hills above them. That's why there is only a small visible presence, the rest are waiting above, likely archers.

That must mean that they were there 'before', watching their progress and letting them pass.

That's how the Kingsguard had known who was coming.

The whole nonchalant performance outside the tower, they knew who was coming and how many. They had been fed the information by the Dornish patrols. If they knew, then it was a fair bet that the Martells, their liege lords, knew, too.

The Martells knew that Lyanna was in the tower, know that Rhaegar left her there. What else did they know? Had they known about Jon?

Ned realised he could simply slip into the river and find out, but that required calm and he was too angry, too scared and his mind raced through the possible implications.

Could they have saved Lyanna's life? If they knew about Jon, what game were they playing? The never hinted at it in the previous life. Oberyn, those trips to the Citadel, was he searching for something? Had he found something?

Ned jumped as someone rested a hand on his arm, jerking him from his spiralling thoughts and fears.

“It's time we were moving again, my lord,” Martyn Cassel said as he brought him back into the moment.

“Aye, Ned agreed. “Not too far now, I reckon.”

They made camp that night just out of sight of their destination, only the very top of the keep visible amongst the foothills. They made no effort to hide their fires, Ned told them there was no point and Howland and Theo agreed.

Morning came and they packed up their small camp once more.

“I'll approach ahead of you all,” Ned told them. “Stay back thirty lengths or so.”

“My lord...!”

“There will be three of them,” he continued over the objections of his company. “I will talk to them, see if we can end this without bloodshed. If we play this wrongly, my friends, they will cut through us like butter. I will not lose you now.” Not again. Luck was with me and Howland last time, but this time, now I am playing with a loaded die.

After much, expected, mumbling they finally acquiesced, after agreeing on fifteen lengths and a signal to take arms.

So it came to be that, once again, Ned road the path to the small keep that, forever onward, would be known as the Tower of Joy. His party had donned their armour and they were all sweltering in the mid morning heat, used as they were to travelling in just their tunics.

Ned huffed out a laugh as he entered the simple courtyard and saw that the three knights were just as he remembered them.

Whent stood at the door to the keep as if guarding the entrance, Hightower sat near the well head reclining after taking a drink, supposedly, and Arthur sat with Dawn in his lap opposite Ser Gerold.

With his more experienced eyes Ned now saw the scene for what it was.

The three men were positioned so that they could not be rushed and overwhelmed easily.

They were roughly equidistant so could more effectively move to offer assistance to another.

Their poses were forced ease to bely the fact that they were ready for and expecting a fight.

The positioning of Whent at the door was a last ditch to prevent entry if they had been misled on numbers whilst the other two knights fought a rearguard to buy him time to get the door shut and barred.

Hightower's narrowed eyes told the more observant Ned that he had not expected them to enter with the space between him and his companions. As he road towards the keep the rest of his men remained just inside the gate in the low wall, rather than flanking their lord.

The most telling of all, of course, was the fact that all three men were in full armour, albeit the more ceremonial armour rather than the simple battle tested armour that his own men wore.

“Well met, good sers,” Ned announced as he drew his mount to a halt, nodding to the lord commander before flicking his gaze across the other two men, noting their tensed postures.

“Lord Stark,” came the terse response. All three men and now taken to their feet as Ned swung himself down from the saddle, dismissing his horse with a slap on the rear.

Let us begin this mummers' farce, Ned thought to himself as he took a calming breath and taking a step towards the unknown.

“I looked for you on the Trident,” I shall stick to the script as writ, if I can remember it.

“We were not there,” Hightower responded.

“Woe to the usurper if we were,” When called out.

“When King's Landing fell, and Lannister killed the Mad King with his golden sword, I wondered where you were.”

“Far away, or King Aerys,” Ser Gerold bristled at Ned's use of the derogatory epithet, “would still sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in the seven hells.”

“I lifted the siege on Storm's End and the lords dipped their banners, the knights bent their knee. I thought to find you amongst them.”

“Our knees do not bend so easily,” Ser Arthur spoke up for the first time.

“You queen sailed east from Dragonstone, fleeing with her children under the care of Willem Darry. I thought you might be with them.”

“The Kingsguard does not flee,” Hightower sneered, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

“Then, or now,” Arthur Dayne added, fitting his helm onto his head.

That won't protect you from a dagger to base of the skull, Arthur, Ned thought grimly, remembering Howland clinging to the taller man's back as he pushed in his blade.

“We swore a solemn vow,” Gerold added as Ned saw Oswald Whent testing the fit of his own armour.

“And now, it begins,” Arthur intoned as he redrew Dawn from his scabbard. The milky white blade flashed in the sun as he made a test swing and then twirled the sword with a flourish.

“It does indeed,” Ned deviated. “I am here for my nephew. I am come for the Prince That Was Promised.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that took a while... I started writing this is in June, I think, and then I got GoT burnout.
> 
> I had the last line in my head for so long, it was just getting there that was the tricky bit. I paraphrased the confrontation, but I knew I wanted it in here.
> 
> I hope that it was worth the wait, I admit, I'm kind of excited to see it goes from here.
> 
> Thank you take the time to read this, I've been really surprised with the amount of people who have, and I'm grateful to all of you. 
> 
> Until next time...


	5. Chapter 4 – Behind the Door, Red?

## Chapter 4 – Behind the Door, Red?

Now was the time in his dreams, in his nightmares, that the scream came.

He had convinced himself, over the years, that there was a scream, but in reality, of course, there was not. The chances that he would arrive at the moment that Lyanna was in labour were astronomical, millions to one.

All there was was the quiet, and the sound of men in armour shuffling around on a dirt floor, waiting for someone to make the first move.

“Your queen lays dying and you stand around, here, like fools.” Ned said, finally, injecting as much of the authority he had gained as Warden of The North into the voice of his twenty name day old self as he could. “Take me to my sister, or at least get out of my way.” It must have made an impression as Ser Gerold nodded his agreement and let Ned past.

“Just you, my lord,” he growled, almost deferentially.

“No, Lord Commander, myself and one other. Lord Reed shall accompany me.” He gestured to his diminutive friend who startled at the mention of his name.

The Kingsguard knight must have perceived the crannogman as no threat as he grunted his acknowledgement.

“Ser Oswald, let them up.” Gerold called over his shoulder, never looking away from Ned. “We will be having words, Lord Stark.”

“Remain here,” Ned said the rest of his band. “Howland and I shouldn't be long, then we'll make a plan for gettin' home again. And, yes, I dare say we will, Ser Gerold.”

Ned wasn't certain but he felt his northern accent slip into his normally measured speech, perhaps in response to the over abundance of southron courtesies.

The two northmen passed between the two knights and headed to the door that Ser Whent still stood at.

He felt a prickle down the back of his neck and would have put it down the watching Kingsguard, when he glanced back though, he saw two other figures standing a short distance off to the side.

He was shocked to see Bloodraven watching his progress, but more shocking was the sight of his son, Bran, stood next to him, gaping at the way that events were unfolding. Events so well 'known', so set in recent history had been completely subverted by the older Ned's interference.

Bloodraven seemed less shocked, he wore what could best be described as a smirk of wry amusement.

Some impish impulse caused Ned to wink at the out of time watchers, before he realised that Arthur Dayne had just seen him wink to no one.

He sobered himself and led the way past Ser Oswald, into the small keep and up the stairs to the room he remembered all too well. The room where his nightmares culminated.

“I take it y'know where y're headed, then?” Howland asked quietly from a step behind.

“Aye,” Ned replied, equally quietly. “We've been this way before, you and I.”

“And you expect the same outcome, this time?” Howland asked.

“I do,” Ned confirmed. “The...”

“The Gods,” Howland provided.

“Indicated that the outcome to today wouldn't be substantially altered.” Ned side stepped actually telling Howland who, or what, had told him. It did give him pause, though. Had Bloodraven shown Bran this day in the previous time branch?

Was there a version of Bran who had seen all of the other versions? Or was there a different Bran for each one? Bloodraven had said that his abilities worked differently to the ones granted to Ned.

As they climbed to the fourth floor Ned wondered how Lyanna had managed the spiral staircase in her condition.

Did she struggle up them on a regular basis or had she not left her rooms in some time.

He couldn't imagine Lyanna being cooped up in the same room for any length of time. The wild girl who loved to ride and run, loved the outdoors, the forests and the hills, she would have wilted in such confined quarters.

The door to the outer chamber was ajar, anyone inside must have heard the boots of two armoured men clomping up the narrow stone stairs, but Ned still announced his intentions.

“We're coming in, there are only two of us,” he called as calmly as he could after the climb and under the circumstances. “We mean you no harm, I am here to see my sister.”

With only his finger tips he swung the door open, pausing in the doorway to make himself seen before stepping over the threshold and into the room.

It was sparsely furnished, a table, chairs and a cot, the only really remarkable feature was the young woman backed against the inner door brandishing a dagger before her.

Ned slowly walked to the centre of the room, he felt Howland step in behind him but stay back so as to not crowd the unknown woman.

Well, unknown to Lord Reed. Ned knew her to be Wylla, the Dornish girl who acted as midwife, maid and companion to Lyanna, and as wet nurse to Jon.

“I am Eddard Stark,” he introduced himself, fixing her wide eyes with his own grey, hopefully calm, eyes. With slow movements he unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the table before he went any closer to her. He paused for a moment, thinking to remove his armour to present a less threatening image but that would take too long, he needed to see Lyanna, now, he did pull off his gauntlets and drop them onto the table too. The noise they made almost deafening in the quiet.

“I have come to find my sister and her child.” Holding his hands out to his sides he stepped carefully around the table.

“Did you kill them?” she asked, her Dornish accented voice hoarse from her fear dry mouth.

“No, my friends and I just talked to them. That is all, and Ser Gerold agreed to let us two past.”

“Truly?”

“Aye, for true, madam, they are still in the yard with the rest of my men. No fresh blood was spilled here today.”

Gently he eased a calloused hand around her wrist and relieved her shaking hand of the dagger, throwing it off to the side where it could do no harm to either of them.

“Is she through there?” he nodded to the closed door she had been standing in front of.

“Yes, m'lord,” her fear level had reduced from terror to unease, but then back up again as Ned made towards the door.

“I tried, I did. The maester left after His Grace did and never came back. I tried...”

“I'm sure you did, Wylla,” Ned tried to sooth her, wincing at his slip. She didn't seem to notice and ploughed on rapidly explaining how she had helped her lady through the labour and the birth but then there was the blood and the shivering and the sweating.

“And she's weak now, I can bare get her to take water, let alone food. She holds her boy and tries to feed the poor thing...”

Ned gestured for Howland to approach and, between them, they eased the manic Wylla into a chair.

“Stay with her, Howland, if you will. I shall see Lya...”

The crannogman took a knee and chafed the woman's hands as she alternated between sobbing and trying to explain. The stress of trying to care for the obviously sick woman and her new born child in less than ideal conditions on her own had been building within her and, now the release had come, it was wringing her out.

Ned stood with his hand halfway to the door latch, trying to compose himself.

It had been nigh on seventeen years since he had stood here last, nearly half his life, but the memories, the nightmares, were still as strong as ever and now he was going to experience it all over again.

“Madness,” he muttered to himself. “The things we do for love.”

The latch opened with a clunk and the thick door yielded under his palm, swinging silently open allowing him to step through.

The smell of the sweat and sickness hung in the air, like the maester's tent after a battle, the metallic tang of blood cut underneath.

Wylla had tried to clean the room as best she could, but the scent had permeated the linens and wall hangings.

The room had obviously been set up to be as comfortable as possible, quite at odds with the rest of the keep's utilitarian red stone construction.

There were hangings at the windows, fluttering half heartedly in the meagre breeze, a table and chairs and rugs on the fitted plank floor.

The room was dominated, though, by the canopied bed, an extravagantly carved piece that made him wonder how it had come to be here. It must have taken a lot of work and some advance planning to get it here. More evidence of Dorne's involvement?

That could wait, he decided as he finally let his eyes settle on the bed's occupant.

Lying on her side, facing away from the door, it was her. Well, of course it was her, it was always going to be her, because it was then.

A tiny part of him almost hoped that it wouldn't be, that somehow the Gods had made a change and the woman in the bed, dying, was his little sister, but, it was.

“Has someone come?” her voice had none of the strength or brightness he remembered from her youth, it was, instead, a dry hoarse sound, somewhere between a whisper and croak. “I thought I heard horses... Who is it, Wylla, have they come for us?”

“Its not Wylla,” Ned returned, past the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. He took a few steps into the room, making himself visible to Lyanna where she lay. “Its me, love, its Ned.”

“Ned...” Lyanna turned her red rimmed eyes, the red more angry against the unnatural paleness of her skin, from whatever held her attention by her bed to meet her elder brother's. “Its really you, you came...”

“I course I did, I always will.”

“Oh, Ned, we made such a bloody mess of all this...” Lyanna sobbed. “We never meant... Father... Bran... Gods, Ned, all those... all those people.”

“Hey now, shush, eh,” Ned tried to sooth the distraught girl who was trying to sit up and curl in on herself, all whilst being racked with sobs and wincing at the pain in her failing body.

He moved to perch himself on the edge of the bed, carefully manoeuvring around the basket on the floor holding his sleeping nephew.

The first ripple of the their changed arrival. Jon had been with Wylla in Ned's last life, not under the watchful gaze of his mother.

“Lya...” Ned laid a, hopefully, gentle hand on her shoulder to arrest her movements. “I've come a long way to find you, both, are you going to introduce me to my nephew?”

Lyanna's eyes grew to the size of plates and her frantic movements ceased in a heartbeat. She was visibly terrified. Terrified of Ned's reaction to her child, the child of the man she ran away with. An elopement that lead to a war that split the Seven Kingdoms in two and caused the deaths of half of their family. How would he react? What would he do? Ned could sense what she was thinking. He didn't need the God's gifts for that, indeed.

“I won't hurt him, Lya. I could never hurt family.” Ned tried to sound soothing once more, but his voice still cracked on the word family. He'd never directly hurt Jon or Ben or any of his and Cat's children, but, his inaction, his mistakes... they had been hurt nonetheless.

“Does he have a name yet?” Ned changed tactic. He knew the answer, but Lyanna still seemed far too defensive. Her hand was laid protectively on the little boy's chest where he slumbered still in his blankets.

“He...” she began. “We, his father and me, we hadn't...” She was fighting back tears again. Couldn't say her husband's name. She knew he was gone, that news would have made it here already. It must have been common knowledge at the markets and taverns even as far as the Wall within days of the battle. Now, weeks later, it would have made it to the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea.

That news, and the truth of what had happened to Rhaegar's other children. That was the reason for her terror, her fear that the same fate that befell them would shared by her own little babe.

“Rhaegar, Lya,” Ned said softly. “Your husband, yes?”

Lyanna nodded, her chin trembling and her eyes wide. Ned was likely the first person outside of their small group to have named him as such.

“How...?” the single word croaked out carried the weight of the unasked questions. How do you know? How did you find out?

Ned just smiled in lieu of an answer. That would take too much explaining and he was conscious that Howland could only keep the Kingsguard and their questions at bay for so long. He needed to get back downstairs and organise. So much to organise, so little time.

“You never discussed names for a boy, did you?” Ned asked, turning his gaze to look softly on his little nephew. Even now, the Stark bloodline was obvious, the man that Jon was to become written in the pale skin and dark brown hair, and the scowl even in the depth of sleep.

“Thought you were birthing his Visenya, din't'e?” Ned tried not to make it sound like an accusation, his maester drilled accent slipping, once more, under the weight of his emotion.

Maester Ronnel would have rapped his knuckles for dropping letters, he was dead now, too, soon to be replaced by Coleman in Jon Arryn's service.

Sidetracked once more, Ned drew his attention back to the now. His lips twitched into a smile as the sleeping babe clacked his gums. He would wake soon, hungry and wanting his mother.

“Never gave much thought to names, I reckon. That so?” Ned glanced to Lyanna, her eyes studied him like he was something entirely foreign to her.

“Little lad deserves a name, Lya-love.” Ned continued. “Never much took to Targaryen name though. Too many wyes and esses.”

Lyanna nodded mutely, confused at the turn of conversation. Here was her brother who had searched for her, gone to war over her mistakes, mistakes that had destroyed their family and he was more interested in naming a babe?

She, of course, didn't understand that for this Ned, the war had been over for nearly two decades. This Ned had filled the holes the war had left behind with new family, five, no, six, children. The pain had receded, lessened to a dull ache, half remembered most of the time, like an old broken bone, only throbbing when the weather changed.

This Ned knew that sometimes all you needed was a distraction to ward away the hurt for a time, just a little relief.

“Good, simple name, he needs. Nothing too Stark, nor Targaryen. He's born of ice and fire, dunt seem right he be lumbered with just the one. Lya, you listening?”

“I... Ned...” Ned could see her getting confused and tired, one feeding off the other. Jon would always be Jon, he wasn't sure why he wanted his sister to name him. Last time he had made the decision himself as they had rode away from the tower.

This time... Lya seemed stronger, weak, but still stronger, like she might still hold on. Maybe, if the maester were found, maybe... Maybe he just wanted to hear him say her son's name once. Something she hadn't been able to do before.

Before... before, when he had found her, the stress brought on by the fight outside the tower had worsened her condition. She had barely the strength to make Ned promise.

“How about Jon?” Ned charged forward. “Certain there's been Jons aplenty in our line before. 'N Rhaegar's friend, Connington, and, of course, Jon Arryn... Aye, it's a good name, a name for everyman, and noble, too. Jon's in all of the families of the Kingdoms, I think, 'cept maybe Dorne. Do they have Jon's in Dorne, do you think?”

The subject of his musings was awake now, his eyes fixed on the big new shape in his life that was making all the noise.

Ned carefully reached down and lifted him from his bed, tucking him into the crook of his arm as he grasped hold of the waving fist that had broke free from its blanket prison.

“What d'you think, little man? Are you a Jon, do you think, hmm?”

Not yet Jon's only response was a raspberry before he started rooting his head against Ned's armour, shortly thereafter there was a squawk of discomfort and the unmistakeable beginnings of an impending crying jag.

“I think he needs his mother,” Ned chuckled, offering the squirming bundle up to Lyanna.

He was surprised to see the reluctance with which she finally reached out.

“I can't, Ned,” she croaked out, stroking her son's cheek as tears ran down her own.

“I can't even be a mother him,” she admitted. Ned suddenly understanding what Wylla had been talking about. Her body was too weak. The fever robbed her of the ability to feed her own son.

“I'll get Wylla,” Ned murmured, standing slowly so as not to jostle the pair.

“I'll be dead soon...” Lyanna said suddenly as he turned his back.

“Lya, what no...!” he said, spinning on his heel and near tripping on the empty basket.

“It's truth, Ned. Each day I feel weaker. More tired and wrung out. My time's short.” Each word quieter than the last as if even that were too much effort. Then, with sudden strength her hand snapped out and grasped his arm.

“Promise me, Ned. Promise me you'll care for him. Protect him.” The vehemence in her eyes, in her tone, so at odds with the broken woman from moments before. More like the wild wolf maiden he had known before he had headed south.

“They'll come for him if they find out. Promise me, Ned. Keep Jon safe.” The who wasn't mentioned but they both knew who she meant. Robert and the Lannisters.

“I promise, Lya.” Ned placed his hand over hers where it still clung to his arm. “I swear, by the Old Gods and the New, no harm shall come to him whilst I still live.”

Lyanna's eyes burned into his own as if testing him, searching for a lie in his vow. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her as her grip relaxed and she released him.

The solemness of the moment meant he wouldn't notice that she had called her son Jon until much later.

“I go get Wylla,” Ned said, once more. “You just lie still and rest, love.”

“Oh aye,” Lya muttered as he left the room. “I'd hate to die tired.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter, I think... I hope, at least, some of you do, too. I worry, a little, that its too much like filler, hopefully I managed to put a little meat on its bones.
> 
> Ned has to find Lyanna, of course, but I tried to do a little more than just the 'bed of blood'. Once I had the last line, I knew where I wanted to go, just not, necessarily how to get there... I really should plan stuff.
> 
> In answer to a question posted in one of the comments, yes, I am from the north of England, Yorkshire born and bred. Like Ned my natural accent comes through more sometimes than others, although not to Seen Been levels. :)
> 
> Next time, Ned has an interview with the Kingsguard.


End file.
